Passive Manipulation
by Rachibert
Summary: A person has to fill that empty part of their soul with something. GSR references, dark theme.


_Disclaimer: I own nothing, please don't sue me. Also, my muse is a very angry entity, not me, **I** love these characters..._

She sat on the edge of her bed staring at her low dresser that held her beauty supplies and the large mirror. The makeup tray that Nick had given her for Christmas a few years ago called to her. She still hasn't figured out what possessed him to buy the thing for her. She wonders how everything was ruined for her, how the passion that drove her became the demon that destroyed her. Yeah, loving something always just comes back and bites you in the ass.

Somewhere along the line it all changed. There were too many visions of blood splatter and brain matter etched onto the back of her eyelids. Too many children victimized, too many women traumatized, and too many men destroyed in the heat of the moment. It was all becoming too much to bear.

Realizing that the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed was funded primarily by the evils of society kind of put a damper on getting her paycheck. Catherine gets onto her about her lack of fashion sense, but she just couldn't seem to bring herself to drop a hundred bucks on a new pair of not very sensible shoes that were afforded because a teenager ran over his teacher in the school parking lot for failing him on his math test. She felt guilty enough using the money to pay the rent on her apartment.

There are only so many gallons of unnecessarily spilled blood that a person can photograph. She was afraid she was beginning to reach that point. But if she reached that point, what would she do? So much of her life had been dedicated to her job, where could she go from here? There was no one outside of the lab that even knew who she was; the lab was her entire life. So what does a person do when the only thing they know is the thing that is destroying every part of their soul; the soul that used to be filled with much better things, things they can't even remember anymore? Surely before the lab there was something that she did, people she knew, activities she enjoyed. But she can't remember that far back, all she can remember is humanity's capacity to destroy.

So she looks back to the tray. There is a quiet satisfaction in looking at the pretty mirrored tray on her dresser that holds her makeup and perfumes and other potions that promise to make her beautiful and irresistible. Only she knows that the pot of strawberry lip gloss really holds the secret that keeps her going, the end of her blusher brush really is what she uses to grind the pretty light brown powder, and the smooth silver nail file that she uses to draw it into lines. Unless you looked really close you wouldn't even notice the plastic coffee stirrer tucked into the makeup brushes.

Sighing, she stands up and walks over to the dresser. She takes all of the unnecessary items from the tray and sits them on the dresser, taking it with her into the living room. She stares a little longer. She knows it's the wrong thing to do; it will only make things worse in the long run. She can already see the effects it has on her body. Her face is hollowing out; her eyes have lost their shine and life, and her hair hangs limp and lifeless. She can tell that she's falling into the addiction trap, she noticed she can't wait to get home and slip into the dark oblivion; she can inhale and wait the 15 minutes until nothing really matters. Only then her mind is at peace, even if it is only for a short period of time.

The guys at work have been looking at her funny, asking if she's ok. They noticed that she isn't working overtime as much as she used to, and she doesn't come in before shift either. They corner her, tell her she's losing weight, and try to get her to make an appointment with a doctor, at least go to the morgue and talk to Doc. She just laughs, placates them with empty promises and unmade phone calls. She knows why she looks like hell; she doesn't need to talk to a doctor to figure that one out. She reminds herself to fake it better tomorrow.

The one that she wants to notice her descent never seems to, and that only makes it feel worse. There is no reason for her to take care of herself anymore. Pining away after unrequited love gets to a person after a while. It's stupid, pointless and humiliating. Just a fantasy that makes reality so much harder to bear. She actually hates herself for holding on as long as she has.

So, while she sits there and contemplates her life, she comes to the realization that nothing really matters anymore regardless of the strawberry lip gloss container. Therefore, by extension, it doesn't matter if she avails herself of its transcendent properties. And it doesn't matter if she goes back in to work or not, because people will still hurt each other, with or without her photos of blood, DNA samples, or lifted footprints. So it's ok to stop going out, just spend all of her time with her makeup tray and her coffee stirrer. She already snagged a good bit of lip gloss "refill" from the evidence vault, so there's not even a reason to go out for that. Screw food, she still has a full box of crackers in the cabinet, that's all she really needs.

She realizes that she never locked the front door, that's not a good thing to forget before her happy little journey. Better put on the extra deadbolt, just in case one of her "buddies" that keeps a spare key decides this is a good time for an intervention. She writes herself a Post-it to call the super and get her locks changed tomorrow. After the crap she gave Warrick about being an addict, he's definitely the last person she wants to know her secret. Well, second to last anyway.

Going back to the couch, she grabs the remote and turns on the stereo. Not too loud, mind you, but loud enough to keep the apartment from being swallowed from the emptiness. She takes the lid off the lip gloss, inwardly berating herself for what she has allowed herself to become and for what she knows she will do regardless. After dumping a little bit out onto the tray, she does what she has to do. She drops the coffee stirrer on the tray when she's done, and leans back on her couch, waiting for the smack to kick in.

She thinks back, back to the first time she tried it. It was by accident really, they were at a scene, a deal gone wrong, just a couple of salesmen negotiating commissions. Apparently they weren't agreeing because they ended up dead. Dead and surrounded by uncut heroin. You could tell they were working on correcting that when the situation changed; there were packages of baby laxatives stacked up right next to it, and the bags had been opened in preparation. Somehow, while she was standing next to Grissom photographing all the paraphernalia, she tripped, falling face first onto the table. Before she knew what had happened, she inhaled just a tiny bit, and busted her lip open and got a good bit of blood mixed in with all the powder. He sent her home; he didn't call her honey or anything, just told her to get herself home and put some ice on it, he had everything under control, it was a pretty simple case.

By the time she got home she had realized what actually had happened. Somehow she, a woman dedicated to truth justice and the American way, had ingested an illegal substance. And she liked it. For the first time in a long while when she fell on the couch, her mind was empty. She knew she had barely had a taste of it, but if this peace was what happened, she was definitely interested.

She can feel her arms getting so heavy, like anchors pulling her down. It's kicked in, she can feel the quiet. This time is a little different though, she notices that she's starting to build up a resistance, the peace isn't as all consuming as it once was. A slight shiver runs down her back, knowing she is rapidly falling down a slope she probably won't be able to climb. Deep inside, she knows. The decision has not been hers for quite a while now really.

She remembers how easy it was to come by, almost serendipitous really. She didn't even have to try to find it. The first time was a snagged sample (steal is such an ugly word) that didn't quite make its way to Trace, was never even logged. Almost like it never even existed. Strange part was, she didn't even collect that sample, and she guessed it had fallen onto the passenger's seat of her car while she was transporting the evidence. That day had been exquisite. The calm, especially after the night she had experienced, felt like a blessing from whatever was supposed to be up there watching over us.

That shift was horrid, she remembers. Oh, no really depressing crimes, just a simple case. No, the problem was with him, messing with her again. Sometimes she felt like he did it on purpose, just pushing her in one direction, toying with her. Almost like a brat with a magnifying glass chasing around the ants in his back yard. It would explain why he likes the bugs so much.

She can't remember what she was thinking about, little boys with magnifying glasses? She shakes her head, trying to remember the path that got her there. Oh yeah, she was thinking about that bastard. He had done it again today. They were at a scene, a suicide. Apparently the woman had once been beautiful, did teen pageants according to the numerous awards and trophies littering the floor. A few years back she had had a car accident, the shards of glass had destroyed the face she once treasured. No amount of plastic surgery could put her back together. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

While processing, she remarked on the tragedy of it all, how just an outward appearance could direct a person's path through life. His reply shattered her existence; he told her that some people know when to give up. It was so far out of left field, so unexpected, so uncharacteristic. The remark was obviously not about suicidal beauty queens, she could tell that by the way he looked at her. Humpty Dumpty didn't have a great fall; someone took his heart, stomped on it, and pushed him off just for the fun of it.

All the king's horses and all the king's men, yeah, she could almost see them circling around poor Humpty, all cracked into little pieces, staring helplessly up at the wall that once held him safe. She giggles, imagining the king's horses crapping all over the shattered egg shell bits. It was fitting she figured, at least in her foggy mind. This is your brain on drugs, fried eggs, broken shells, Humpty falling from grace; rambling and disjointed bits of information that have nothing really to do with one another, suddenly becoming blindingly accurate. He is the wall; she is no longer even a shell of what she once was.

She decides the best thing for her little egg-self to do was to boil. A hot bath, some candles and incense. It sounded heavenly to her. She looks down at her legs, wondering if they had the ability to stand up just yet. Apparently they are willing; the next thing she knows she is standing up and ambling her way down the hall, knocking a couple of photos off the wall when she bumps into it, even grabbing a couple of towels from the closet. She turns on the water as hot as she can stand before spooning some of those fancy salts and weird little oil balls into the tub. Not sure why, but she thinks those are things that you need to do when you cook an egg, maybe salt the water? She can't remember what the egg has to do with anything or even why she's thinking about eggs.

After looking around, halfheartedly, to find some candles, she checks under the sink, maybe some got tossed in there. All she finds are tampons and bathroom cleansers, and look, in the very back, a soggy unopened box of condoms, apparently drenched in toilet bowl cleaner. Very disgusting, very sad, and still no candles.

She begins to believe that it will be forever before the bath is filled, so she goes back to the living room for just a little more lip gloss. Eh, she can't think of a good reason not to. Figuring that ought to do her for a while, she takes the tray back to the bedroom, puts everything back where it needs to go. A person can't really enjoy their bath without things being in their proper place, now can they? She revels in the simple satisfaction of a well organized dresser, too bad she can't remember where she left the candles. Screw it, she decides, and goes back to the bathroom.

Apparently forever is how long it takes for her to put away her things, because the bath is finished filling up, and she appreciates whoever invented the overflow drain. She takes off her clothes, tosses them in the hamper, and then remembers to turn off the faucets. Once again, she thanks the inventor of the overflow drain. As she settles into the bath, she can't remember if she put in those fancy salts, so she spoons some gardenia scented salts into the bath, swishing the water to make it all dissolve. Her eyes glaze over as the second dose kicks in; oh sweet, sweet oblivion.

She watches the steam coming off the water and for just one moment wonders what makes it steam in the first place, before laughing at herself, since she is supposed to be a scientist and all. The shit must really be working this time. Blessed are the ignorant, they can see the beauty in simple things. She can see lots of things now. After trying once or twice, she turns her head to the mirror. It's all steamed up, but she thinks she can see something written on it, she used to leave cute notes for a boyfriend from somewhere on the mirror when he showered, maybe that's what it is. She squints her eyes, and she does believe it says something, that it isn't her, uh, watchacallit, imagination and stuff. Nope. She can definitely see something on the mirror. Her head bobs a little, her chin in the water, trying in vain to make out the words, something like "I took the road less traveled, and it has ruined me". Oh hell, she is certain she's lost it now, that darn imagination. Who the hell writes bad, mutilated Robert Frost poetry on their bathroom mirror? Yup, she can remember Robert Frost even though she can't remember steam. Funny how the mind works when you are trying to shut it down for a while.

It takes all she has in her to swivel her head back around, she looks at her toes, the polish all chipped and forgotten. She can see her hair, swirling around in the bathwater, dancing in ways her hair never is allowed to dance anymore. Her fingers start to wrinkle, and that only brings to mind those cute little wrinkles around his eyes, so she shuts her eyes tight against that vision; he isn't allowed in her happy place.

Oh, she feels marvelous; hot water, heavy body, fuzzy brains. Pruney fingers and a bad pedicure. She slides a little lower in the tub, letting the water go up to her ears and run over her scalp, getting her entire head wet. She scoots herself back up, slowly of course, fascinated by the sound of the water sloshing back and forth. Taking her arm and slowly helping the swoosh; oh she is so proud that she can still make that movement. Another wave of peace washes over her, like the tides on the beach when she was little.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees something coming in the bathroom, a figure. A hallucination, she thinks, and is rather pleased, as she has never had one of those before. No, wait, that looks just like Grissom, so since it can't be a hallucination, she decides it must be a hallucigrissom. It's the only real explanation she can think of, and she's quite pleased with her newly invented word, and laughs to herself at her cleverness. So, the figment of her imagination perches on the edge of the bathroom sink, and just watches her for a moment. By now, she is certain that she had acquired some pretty quality stuff. Especially when the hallucigrissom starts to talk to her.

"Are you enjoying your little trip?" he asks her, his eyes never leaving her face. She's pretty impressed that her hallucination is respecting her privacy and not gawking at her naked underwater body.

"Yes, it is rather lovely; I can't imagine why I never tried it before. It fills me with great shame to think of all the years I have wasted my substance abuse options on cigarettes and alcohol." She lifts her foot out of the water, pointing her toe at the apparition in order to finalize the statement.

Apparently he is satisfied with her answer, he sits quiet for a moment, and chuckles to himself. "You seem to be quite calm for someone with a strange man in their bathroom, even if you do know me."

"Maybe so, but I also know you aren't really here. The real you doesn't care enough to give me the time of day, much less drive all the way over here so he can break into my apartment and sit in my bathroom with me." She is rather perplexed that hallucigrissom is concerned about this tidbit. "So why are you here to bother me anyway?"

"I've come to help," he answers, "it's been looking like you could use a little help for a while now. The pain is getting to be too much, isn't it? Do you want to go back to the beginning and start over?"

"You want to start over? You can't start over; there is no reset button on this game. It's impossible to change the past. Even if we put everything that has happened behind us, forgive and forget, the scar will remain. It'll still be there, I'll always wonder when you are going to start treating me horridly again. Anyway, I'm a junkie now, see?"

"Oh yes, I can definitely see the junkie part," hallucigrissom chuckles, "but what I don't see is why you can't start over. It's really easy once you think about it. I'll show you the way."

Something about that statement frightened her a little, but the drugs were keeping her body heavy and slow, so she put the fear away until later when she could process it better. She watched as he stood from his perch and walked toward her; her mind bringing unbidden images of him joining her, bliss, sweat and lust. He cups his hand to her cheek, his other hand resting gently on her shoulder. It feels so real to her; she can feel the warmth and the pressure where he touches her.

Suddenly the feeling changed. It wasn't light pressure anymore; he was pushing down on her shoulder, pushing it underwater. He moves his other hand from her cheek to the back of her head, grasping tightly at her hair as he pulls her under. She gasps as her face goes under, watching the smile on his face as she attempts to struggle. It's difficult; the drugs keep her movements ineffective. While the world goes black, she can see him laughing at her, telling her what a pretty little decomp she will be for Greg to clean up.


End file.
